Waking Up
by dumpling47
Summary: "You weren't the only one who suffered, John." Post-Reichenbach angst, eventual Johnlock.
1. 5 Days After

_**Guess what? This is gonna be heavy on the angst - I'll bet you weren't expecting that from me! And it's post-Reichenbach, which I almost never do. Hope it strikes a chord somewhere ...**_

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**[SHERLOCK'S POV]**

* * *

"Two-hundred twenty-four days," John murmurs over his coffee.

I don't need to glance up and question him. He's never told me why he says this - repeats this - but I know, because I was counting, too.

Counting the days I was apart from him.

Every day was an agony, and that's putting it lightly. I didn't even think I'd get back to him. Didn't think I'd be able to fight through the worst of Moriarty's twisted web.

I did, though, and now I'm back.

And John still hasn't forgiven me.

It's been five days since I appeared. Since he let out that terrible string of swear words and punched me across the face so hard I'm surprised I didn't break my nose. I'm still nursing an injury, but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as _this_.

This pain.

This knowledge that I have hurt him, though hardly more than I have hurt myself.

"You alright?" John's voice pulls me out of my reverie.

"Yes, just fine." I swallow, bring my cup of coffee to my lips. Take a small sip.

"You seem - off, somehow," John says.

He's right, of course. Everything I do, every thought, has become robotic. I can't function. I can't adjust to being back, to knowing that I have hurt my best friend - my only friend - like this. Somehow, being back at Baker Street only triples the pain. Being here, in front of him, the man I so desperately love as a brother - and perhaps something more than that.

"It's nothing," I say, taking another sip.

"I took the day off work," John says, his jaw hard. "I couldn't bear to go in. I'm not ready yet."

He hasn't been able to let me out of his sight for the five days I've been back.

Sometimes, I can't believe what I've done. His life might've been better if he'd just imagined I was dead all this time - if I'd never returned. He was finally beginning to move on, and then I stuck my head in and completely ruined everything.

I feel a great hole in my chest, widening the longer I sit here. I set my cup down shakily and exit the room.

"Sherlock?" John calls, but by this point, I'm running. I make it to the loo, emptying the contents of my stomach into the toilet. There isn't much there (I haven't been able to eat for awhile), so it's mostly dry-heaving. I've locked the door, but John's knocking, calling out for me.

I choke down a sob and wipe at my mouth, opening the door.

"You look like a mess," John says, and I know I do. I'm pale, my hair is even more tangled than usual, my pyjamas are hanging loosely from my frame. I finally know what it means to feel like death - though not just physically.

Suddenly, John's looking me up and down, his mouth wide open, as though he still can't believe I'm finally back.

"Two-hundred twenty-four -" he begins.

"Stop! Stop saying that!" I cry out, grabbing him by the shoulders, desperate that he should stop. "Please."

"Sherlock ..." John's voice is just as robotic as mine was.

"I know how long it's been!" I say, my voice breaking. "I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry. I don't know - _didn't_ know - what else to do. I wish you'd ... I wish you'd forgive me."

I make my way to my room in a trance, leaving John in the hallway. I immediately regret it - I've left him again, in the smallest of ways. I can't leave him. Can't leave John. My John. Mine.

I leave the door open, in hopes that he'll come to me. I know I shouldn't expect that, though. He's still in a daze; doesn't even believe I'm completely real. Believes I'll leave him again.

I collapse into bed and bury my face in my pillow, shutting out everything I can.

But not John.

Suddenly I'm angry. Why can't he _see?_ I apologized - isn't that what people do?

But more than that: I jumped for him. I know I made him watch, but that was entirely necessary to the plan - why can't he see that? And I took out all of Moriarty's web, not because I wanted mental stimulation, or a thrill (as is usually the case), but because I wanted him safe.

Nothing else mattered if John was in danger, and John had been in danger. I'd done the logical thing.

It wasn't just a matter of logic, though. I'd done it all out of love ... love for him.

I bury my face in even further and let out a muffled cry.


	2. 1 Week After

_**Thank you for all the positive feedback! Even if you're just following - it means a lot. It's so cool to think that there are people out there that are interested in my writing.**_

_**Anyway ... you thought the angst was over? THINK AGAIN! MWAHAHAHAHA ...**_

_**... ahem. The fic. Right.**_

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**[JOHN'S POV]**

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Seven days after The Return (as I've been calling it), I muster up the ability to go into work again. When I get back home, I make my way up the stairs to find something entirely unexpected.

Sherlock is staring out the window at the street below, a smile frozen on his face. He doesn't appear to be aware of my presence.

"Nice day, isn't it, John," he says listlessly. "Rather sentimental of me, I suppose, commenting on the weather."

I'm startled. I know Sherlock sometimes carries on talking when I'm away, but this seems different somehow. This strikes me as bordering on insanity.

"I'm sorry, you know," he continues. "So, so sorry." He pauses, looks upwards. His chin quivers. "You weren't the only one who suffered, though, John."

His fists are clenched; he's barely hanging on. Still doesn't know I'm here. I want so desperately to hold him, to comfort him, but he'd hardly allow it, and not just because of pride. He wouldn't let me touch him because I was a complete dick to him in days previous.

Those first days, I hadn't been able to get out of my reverie. I'd been muttering strange things, too. I vaguely remember saying something about 'two-hundred twenty-four days', probably more than once.

God, I really need to get in for a session with my therapist sometime soon. I can't handle this. Just can't. We're both going completely mental, and we ought to be talking to each other, sorting all this out, forgiving and forgetting.

But I know for a fact that I just _can't_. Can't forgive, can't forget. I know why he did what he did, and perhaps I'm being selfish. But he's my best friend, and he sent me to hell and back. What kind of friend does that, anyway?

But no, that's not how it went. I'm so confused, all of a sudden. I feel a splitting headache coming on. I'm about to exit the sitting-room when suddenly, Sherlock turns and sees me standing there, in the doorway.

"John."

"Er, hey," I say stupidly. I smile for good measure, but I know it looks forced.

"You heard all that, I suppose," he says.

"Yeah."

"You couldn't possibly imagine all the talking I did to you during - you know." Sherlock, who's always had a snarky response prepared for any situation, is at a complete loss for words. I'm not used to seeing him look so uncomfortable, especially when I'm feeling the exact same way. It's jarring.

"But you knew I wasn't there," I insist.

"I know I did," Sherlock answers. "I just needed to talk to you."

I can't take it anymore. The pain is too much. I straighten my shoulders and exit the room.

* * *

I hear him, every so often, muttering things, mostly to me ... even though I'm not present. And that great pain fills my chest. I want so badly to forgive him, to make things right between us again, but I just can't. It would be too easy, but at the same time, nothing would be more difficult.

Another thing: I haven't just wanted to be his friend again. Even before Reichenbach, I'd been completely in love with him. He wasn't perfect, but I didn't want perfect. I wanted _him_. And I'd lost him, and all his imperfections.

I know this isn't making any sense. What I'm trying to say is, all my thoughts and feelings are conflicting in this moment, and had been, throughout the period of his absence.

Forgiving him will be the easy part. I suppose I already have, in a way.

Admitting that I am enamored of him will be much more challenging.


	3. 2 Weeks After

_**Will all end well? Who knows ...**_

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**[SHERLOCK'S POV]**

* * *

My Mind Palace has had a place for John for a long time now, but I know I haven't put him where he belongs.

He belongs in the first and foremost of my thoughts. The Important/Not Boring/Worth Making Efforts For section, if I even have one like that. Oh, sod it all. I'll make that section right now if I have to.

But wait. I _do_ have a section like that, and John's been present in it for awhile. Even before I jumped for him, really. And because he's in such a special space, he deserves special treatment, as any best friend does.

I, Sherlock Holmes, will make a supreme effort to be the best friend possible - not just to earn John's forgiveness, but because he deserves this more than anything.

* * *

I start doing things to prove to myself (and maybe even to John) that I deserve to be his friend. That I deserve his condonation. I stop playing the violin in the early hours of the morning - and if by chance I forget this rule, I at least make an effort to play something good. I label my experiments in the fridge, and do away with the bloody severed heads altogether. Hell, I even adopt the chore of getting the groceries, and make sure to get all of John's favorites.

One morning, two weeks after my return, I'm spreading jam on toast as a surprise for John when the man in question comes downstairs, grinning at the smell of strawberries.

"Mmm ..." he murmurs, entering the kitchen. He stops dead when he realizes where the scent is coming from.

"Sherlock?" he asks.

"Yes, John?"

"Why are you - why are you acting like this?"

I'm startled. "What?"

"Why are you being so nice to me?"

I'm taken aback. I watch the realization dawn on my friend's face. "You're trying to get on my good side," he says, as if to himself.

I continue to spread the jam as though I haven't heard anything, and hand him the toast in question. He smiles shyly and takes a bite.

"That's delicious," he comments.

I feel my cheeks redden, even though I haven't done much of anything. Any compliment from John is worth savoring.

"Thanks, Sherlock," he says, as though he's testing the words out on his tongue. I nod almost imperceptibly, watching as he sits down at the table (free of experiments!) and tucks in.

"John," I say suddenly, my throat constricting.

"Yeah, Sherlock? What is it?"

I don't know what I'm saying, but I say it anyway - and mean it. "You are important to me. I just - I just wanted you to know that."

John nods. "You're important to me, too, Sherlock. You always have been."

And we go on with our morning as though nothing has happened.

* * *

John appears in the doorway to my room, just as I'm getting ready for bed, with tears streaming down his face.

"Sherlock," he sobs, stepping towards me and collapsing into my arms, "I'm so sorry. I forgive you - oh, God, I forgive you."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Can't believe that John's crying like this, either. The only thing I can think to do is to hold him close as he cries.

"I always forgave you, I think," he says between sobs. "I was just - stubborn. Couldn't believe it. I was hurt. I'm sorry, okay? So, so sorry." He swallows. "I know you've had troubles adjusting. I know I'm not the only one who suffered. Oh, God - I just - I just -"

I don't shush him. He needs to get this out.

"I just want you to know that I'm so happy you're back, even if I haven't been showing it too well," he says, wiping at his eyes. "And that I love you - as more than a friend, and I know that's probably going to scare you off, but I just - I couldn't help but tell you -"

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing, but before he's finished, I've silenced him with a kiss. What are the chances that this wonderfully loyal man loves me back? I can't let him disappear again. I can't leave him as I did before, no matter what.

I can't risk his running off, thinking I don't love him too ... and that is why I kiss him back.

It's deep and warm and, dare I say it, beautiful. It doesn't matter that we're both crying by now (yes, even me!) - all that matters is that we've got each other. We're finally together.

Words aren't necessary in these moments. We're on the bed now, and I haven't an inkling where our clothes have disappeared to. Things are moving awfully fast, but I don't care. We have to make up for the days we've lost - the days we could've spent together.

Those two-hundred twenty-four days.

Plus two weeks, I suppose.

He's thrusting inside me; I'm making all sorts of desperate noises. I don't just want him; I physically need his presence. I need John Watson. I need_this_.

"Who would've thought," he says quietly. I've just come and now I'm lying back on the bed, utterly exhausted.

"Hmm?" I ask, my breathing ragged.

"Who would've thought you'd love me back, I mean."

"Oh, John. Who couldn't love you?"

I can feel him rolling over in bed, and then he's on top of me, but we're not about to make love again. Well ... in a sense, we are. Just not the way we were.

"I'm so happy you're back, Sherlock," John says. "And I'm so happy all this worked out."

"I'm happy, too," I say, my voice swelling with that very emotion.

I know there's still a lot to work out. Hell, in the morning, all of this might end in disaster - though I don't think it will. John's not like that, and quite frankly, neither am I. We've been on quite the roller-coaster ride, this past year, and most of it has felt like a dream.

But not this. Not in this moment. This is real, and such knowledge lifts my heart.

I've finally woken up, and in all honesty, I couldn't be any more grateful for it.


End file.
